The Last Action Heroine
by Ashley A
Summary: Post NFAChosen.


For Kristi.

Happy Birthday, doll.

Post NFA/Chosen, rated PG.

Buffy paused at the edge of the theater, staring at the posters. Action, romance, comedy? What was she in the mood for?

And how often was it that she got a break from training whining fifteen year olds to embrace their inner wonder woman?

She sighed, and hesitated.

San Fransisco was beautiful, and pleasant, and so different from Sunnydale…and even LA.

But she was getting bored. And she hated to admit it, but her restlessness might just have something to do with a certain newly human ex child of the night whom she had gotten a postcard from recently.

_Buffy,_

_Tanning hurts – especially when you don't wear sunscreen. Yes, you can say you told me so when I get there._

_Don't see any good action movies without me._

_See you soon._

_A._

Buffy sighed again, and pushed her short hair off her forehead.

Looking again at the marquee, she made a choice, and went in, purchasing a ticket, and the biggest popcorn and candy combo she could.

Served him right. No action movies, huh? Too bad.

Yawning and stretching, she exited the theater two hours later, sated and happy.

Sexy english actors and armor always went well together, and besides, the girl who had played Guinevere had kicked ass. _Coulda been a slayer, even_, she thought.

"Hmmm, Buffy, queen of Camelot, last action herione of merry old Britain," she said, holding out her arms, swinging them about as if she carried a large sword.

"Feel the bite of Excalibur!" she yelled, and moved her hands in an arc, executing a perfect 180 turn, her 'sword' coming with her.

The two little girls behind her stared, then burst into giggles, running off to join their parents.

"Great," she murmured, "not only do I have to go to movies by myself, I'm acting them out in front of strangers. Not even Clive Owen on the big screen is worth that."

Buffy turned and made her way to the streetcar stop, watching as the sun began to set.

The city was amazing, her life was good and stable, Dawn was happy…and she was miserable.

Catching the train, she closed her eyes, and dreamed.

Vampires all around her, and she was a kick ass top notch slayer. THE slayer. No trainees. No Faith, no Kendra. Just Buffy. The one.

_She dusted each one in turn, with a kick, a snap of her wrist, and a pun. She was always good at punning, no matter what Giles said._

_The cemetary was empty in a flash, and the world was at her feet. Mayors, politicians, fawning civilians loved her, offered her the key to the city, changed street names to "Buffy" instead of Main._

_She gloried in it, and accepted her laurel crown. The world knew of the Slayer, and how she fought the things that went bump in the night. And it worshipped her for it._

_Movies stars came and went, and rock stars had their days, but she was the real hero._

_And at last, when she passed on her mantle, the world was adoring and enshrined her as befitting a champion._

And then she opened her eyes, and she was just a twenty five year old girl, plain jane Buffy, on a train in a big, anonymous, city.

She leaned her head against the window, and watched San Fransisco pass by.

Opening the door to the house she shared with Dawn, Buffy dropped her keys and her purse on the hallway table, shouting for her sister.

No answer.

"Ugh," she said, noticing the note on the fridge.

Out with Spike. Back soon…oh, hell, don't wait up.

"And again with the ugh," she shuddered. "They deserve each other."

Human Spike was something to see – although not something Buffy wanted to see all too often. Especially kissing her baby sister.

He had been a large part of her life when she had needed someone, and he still had her respect, and a large part of her heart.

But not the part that meant birdies singing and bells in the air.

That part was reserved for the man who had sent the oh too brief postcard.

She grumbled, words like _stupid man_ and _what the hell was I thinking, _and_ damn business trips_ making their way through her lips.

"Gave him my heart…he goes to Jamaica. Alone," she muttered. "I will never understand him. Not even if I had gotten the handbook. Where was my slayer handbook?" she grumped, flopping on the couch, clicking on the tv. "They could have at least warned me about the possibility of vampires with souls. Even if there wasn't really a possibility. Stupid Buffy. Always choosing the difficult ones."

"Oh, I live to have a sucky love life," she moaned, imitating her high school self – or at least the way she remembered sounding. "Oh, Angel, take my heart, then stomp on it. I'm just a little blond girl. I'm just the slayer. I'm no one. Sure, I'll sacrifice my happiness for the world. More than once? No problem."

She snorted, then shook her head.

_Hormoning much, Summers?_

The back door clicked open, and she stayed where she was, changing channels and kicking her feet up on the coffee table.

"Dawn…you better have brought me some ice cream," she yelled finally, "to pay for all the triple mocha fudge you ate last week."

"How about cookie dough?"

"Gah!" Buffy answered, grabbing her chest at the sound of the unexpected male voice.

"When did you get back?" she said, trying to calm her breathing.

"Just now. Traffic was heavy," Angel replied, putting his small duffle down. He shuffled over to her, sitting awkwardly on the cushions next to her, his back stiff, his arms held at his sides.

Buffy shifted her eyes to sneak a look at him, and had a suddenly wicked, evil thought.

No more than he deserves.

"So," she said brightly, "how was it?" And she slapped him on the back…hard.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" was the satisfying answer. She smirked, then had to cover her mouth to avoid bursting into a laugh.

"Sssss….ssssssss…" was all he could get out, having hunched over, looking so much like a cross between a lobster and the hunchback of Notre Dame.

"What? I'm sorry, I can't quite hear that."

"SSSSSssssunburn!" he gasped at last, and she put on a faux surprised look.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Angel, I didn't know!" she raised a hand to her lips, her eyebrows arching elegantly.

_Be nice, Summers_.

She tried to ignore her inner monologue, but it won out, and she was contrite.

Ignoring her mean behavior, she stood, grabbing his hand, and pulled him upstairs, shushing him when he asked what was going on.

He followed, cringing and whining, trying not to touch his skin anywhere.

"Off," Buffy commanded, pointing at his grey henley.

He cocked his own eyebrow, but obeyed, hissing when his shoulders moved with the action.

She held back a sigh at the sight of his stomach…how the man kept washboard abs and ate as much as he did was beyond her.

"Turn around," she said, and he did, putting his hands on the bathroom countertop.

She rooted around in the cupboard, and with a triumphant "ah ha!" emerged holding a big bottle with lovely green gel in it.

"The best thing for sunburns, ever," Buffy told him, waving her hands, when he scowled. "I promise, Angel. No tricks."

He turned back, muttering.

Squirting a huge handful of aloe into her palm, Buffy began to spread the gel on Angel's crisped and raw back.

He jumped, a very unmanly screech making Buffy smile, then settled down.

She smoothed the aloe onto his skin with smooth strokes of her hand, and was suddenly transported back to an earlier time – not necessarily the best time, but one she would never forget.

The first time she had seen his bare skin…and had still been innocent to his true nature.

The tattoo, the smirk, the dark eyes. So much promise, so much danger, so much heat between them.

It had never changed. No matter how hard they had fought it.

Buffy and Angel just didn't work without the other.

The corner of her mouth quirked up, and her hand slowed.

He turned, and cocked his head, staring at her.

"What are you smiling at?" he said softly, and she shook her head.

"A memory," she answered simply, and met his eyes.

She was in the cemetary again, and vampires were all around her.

_No politicians, no mayors, no adoring crowd._

_She still slayed and punned, still did her job, thankless as it was._

_And then he was next to her, and as dead demon dust swirled around them, their lips met, and her world melted to one pinprick of light, and one soul, joined to hers._

_Angel._

_Angel._

_Angel._

_She didn't care about the world, or being a hero._

_She just wanted herself, and him, together._

Angel smiled tentatively at her, and she layed her hand on his chest, over his heart. He only winced slightly, and picked up her other hand, turning it over and kissing the palm.

"I missed you," she whispered at last, and he grinned, a huge white toothed affair that made her burst into peals of suppressed laughter.

He gathered her into his arms, and she carefully reciprocated, nestling her head into his neck, absorbing the feel and smell of her love, her life, her Angel.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, "I should have taken you with me."

"Please, Angel," she said, "you think I want to go on a boring business trip – even if it was Jamaica," she added, grumbling only a little.

He laughed, his chest rumbling her cheek. She loved that.

"Do that again," she said, tracing lazy patterns on his stomach, making his muscles jump pleasantly.

"What? Laugh?" he asked.

"No," she answered, realizing that hadn't been what she'd been asking for.

"What, mo croi?" he asked again.

"Love me."

He smiled again, this time a more sultry version of the normal Angel toothfest.

"Always. You don't have to ask."

It was his turn to lead her by the hand, and as the bedroom door shut, Buffy left all thoughts of the past and heroes at the threshhold.

Things weren't perfect. They wouldn't be.

But they were pretty damn close, and for the oldest living slayer, that was perfect enough.

Even if he had gone to Jamaica without her.

Making him pay for that would be _fun_.

end.


End file.
